The remainder of dinner was surreal and stilted. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully. You know—if you want freedom. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. To his relief, she nodded. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat. She sings better perhaps.
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